The Few

by Nadia Dalbuono

  ‘Well, yes, so it does, but you know the score. We’ve got to explore the other avenues, too.’

  Both fell silent for a moment before Scamarcio said: ‘You hear about Spezzi killing himself?’

  ‘Yeah, strange. But what’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘He was involved in that scandal with the rentboy a couple of years back, remember?’

  Scamarcio heard him push the air out from his cheeks, and shift in his chair. ‘Ah, come on, Scamarcio. Now you really are clutching at straws.’

  ‘Am I, though? The Ganza story breaks, Arthur is killed, then this guy Simon, and now the heir to the Spezzi empire — who supposedly had everything going for him — suddenly decides to end it all, and there’s this nasty dirty secret in his past that we never really got the full story on.’

  ‘Yeah, but coincidences happen. I don’t see why the Ganza thing would affect him.’

  Scamarcio paused a moment before saying: ‘I went to see him.’

  ‘Who — Ganza?’

  ‘No — Spezzi, the day before he died, when they’d just taken him into hospital.’

  ‘Why? And why didn’t you tell me sooner?’

  ‘I guess I never got around to it. But listen, he made me think that my hunch wasn’t so far out. He told me: “Leave it alone, because it isn’t worth it.” He made me think that “it” was something significant.’

  ‘Yeah, but if he’d just tried to top himself, maybe he wasn’t all there.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Scamarcio, but he wasn’t convinced.

  Garramone said he had to rush off and would call him if he had any more news. Scamarcio had the sense once again that he wasn’t being entirely open with him, that he was keeping certain things to himself. But for now he pushed the thought to the back of his mind — he didn’t want to deal with it. He hurried into the station, and when he entered the squad room, a man and a woman wearing suits were waiting for him. He noticed that Zanini and Borghetti seemed quite uncomfortable in their presence. There was no sign of Genovesi.

  The woman rose from her seat and held out a hand: ‘Detective Scamarcio, I presume?’

  He shook her hand, and reached out to grasp the man’s. ‘Yes, and you are …?’

  ‘Silvia Morandi, and my colleague here is Gianluca Ferrera. We work for the press department of the Tuscan police.’

  ‘Ah.’ Scamarcio felt relieved to have them here so soon. ‘You’re earlier than I was led to believe.’ He held up his hands. ‘But I’m not complaining.’

  ‘Good.’ Morandi sat back down again. She was an attractive woman — long, brown hair, tanned, even features, toned calves — all in all, a very presentable package, which Scamarcio guessed was pretty essential these days if you had to face the media. She crossed her legs, seeming to have picked up on his appraisal. ‘We decided to expedite things. The American networks have started to run the story, and we’re anticipating a big media presence here on the island from now on. It seemed sensible to get down here as quickly as we could.’

  Ferrera coughed, covering his mouth with his hand. He leaned back in his chair slightly. He was less good-looking than his colleague, but very presentable in his grey Armani suit with a royal blue tie. Scamarcio had a feeling he was about to say something difficult.

  ‘Listen, Scamarcio, we just need to clear something up with you.’ The tone was confident and strong; there was no sense of hesitancy about what was to come.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Obviously, your name is known to the Italians — the whole story about you and your father was everywhere last year.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, we’re figuring it’s only a matter of time before our Italian hacks fill in the Americans on your colourful past, and when that breaks we think there’s going to be some diplomatic fallout. I mean, look at it their way: they already see us as a country of Mafiosi incompetents who can’t run a government, let alone an economy, and now we have a detective involved in a crucial inquiry whose father was one of the leading figures in the ’Ndrangheta. Whichever way you cut it, it looks bad.’

  Scamarcio was about to take a seat, but decided to remain standing. ‘My father’s past has nothing to do with me. How long do I have to keep repeating myself on that? It should be clear by now that I chose a different life. And, when all is said and done, I’m probably far less corruptible than anyone else — I’ve been there, rejected it. My department in Rome will attest to the fact that I’m clean. I’m regularly vetted, and have been since day one. I’m probably more vetted than any other figure in the department.’

  ‘I hear you, Scamarcio. Your colleagues all obviously believe in you and rate you, otherwise the Flying Squad in Rome would never have taken you on, but that’s not the issue here, and you know it. The point is that television and television news — especially American television news — can’t handle such nuances. It’s black and white for them. They’ll never spend any time talking about you being clean, or looking at your past successes. For them, all that counts is that your dad was a gangster: plain and simple. The Americans would never countenance that in their police system.’

  Scamarcio tried to speak, but Ferrera was in full flow. It sounded like he’d been preparing this little speech on his way over from the mainland. ‘The chief in Florence and, I believe, several political figures, are up to speed on your involvement in the Stacey Baker case, and it’s causing them concern. Firstly, for the reasons I’ve outlined and, secondly — and this is perplexing all of us, because we’re wondering just why you’re crossing onto Tuscan jurisdiction — how does this girl’s disappearance concern Rome?’

  ‘Look, Ferrera, my chief has already briefed your chief on my case, I believe.’ Scamarcio knew full well that there was no way Garramone would have given him the real story. ‘All I can tell you is that Stacey Baker’s disappearance ties into a murder I’m investigating, but I can’t go around divulging the details — it’s sensitive right now. If the chief in Florence and the politicos are still worried, they just need to speak directly to Garramone, my boss. They all know the score and, to be honest, I imagine they’ve already consulted and that it’s been sorted between themselves. It’s just you who has a problem with me being here, because you’re worried it’s going to create extra work for you.’

  Ferrera was shaking his head, but his tone remained measured and reasonable. ‘That’s not the case, Scamarcio. I just think it would be a lot easier if you were out of this. Genovesi and the chief in Florence, who will be arriving here soon, should take the lead. I want the focus on them, and none of the tittle-tattle of last year.’

  Scamarcio understood where he was coming from, but could not let himself get pushed out just when he sensed he was finally getting somewhere. ‘Listen, we both know that you don’t have the power to lift me off this case: that has to come from our respective bosses. But I do appreciate your predicament, and I’ve got no desire to hog the media spotlight. OK, let Genovesi and your boss in Florence take the limelight, but please just let me stay under the radar doing my job. The sooner I get the answers I need, the sooner I’m out of your hair.’

  Ferrera sighed. ‘I know you’re a genuine guy, Scamarcio, but this is already beyond your control. It’s too late for you to just pop back under the radar.’ He bent down and pulled a neatly folded newspaper from his briefcase, handing it to Scamarcio. He saw that it was that day’s la Repubblica.

  ‘Turn to page three.’

  Scamarcio did as instructed. The article was at the top, and took up more than half the page. Its headline read: ‘Flying Squad maverick to investigate American disappearance.’ The by-line was Morello’s.

  The opening paragraph contained the usual claptrap to be expected from that woman: The Flying Squad’s enigmatic black sheep … dark past … witness to his father’s murder … well-documented temper outbursts, but renowne
d for his frequent maverick brilliance. He couldn’t read any more, and tossed the paper onto the desk.

  Why was he a maverick, he wondered. He had always done his job, and delivered results — there was nothing of the maverick about that. Why did his past have to make him an enigma? Would he be justifying himself and his chosen role in life until the day he died?

  ‘See what I mean?’ asked Ferrera. But there was nothing carping about the tone; he simply sounded regretful, if not a little apologetic.

  ‘Yeah, I get it.’ Scamarcio sighed. ‘All I can do is lie low as much as possible, but please just let me finish my investigation here unhindered.’

  Ferrera exchanged glances with his colleague. Zanini shuffled some papers distractedly. Scamarcio wished they hadn’t had to have this discussion in front of the two officers.

  ‘As you say, it’s not for us to decide. But we wanted to flag it up, because right now it’s being discussed by the upper echelons and we thought you should know.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Scamarcio.

  Fererra looked down to the floor for a second before saying. ‘I’m sure I speak for all of us here when I say I have great admiration for the distance you’ve come, Scamarcio, and the work you do. Please don’t take my words amiss.’ He rose from his seat and gathered his bag, motioning for Morandi to do the same. ‘Anyway, we’ve got a press conference to organise, so we must get on. Hopefully, things will work themselves out in the coming days.’

  He turned to Zanini: ‘You said you had a room we could use?’

  ‘Sure, I’ll show you the way.’ The officer headed for the doors, making sure he held them open for Morandi. Borghetti got up and made for the coffee machine. ‘You want one, Scamarcio?’

  ‘No, thanks. I’m going to take a walk.’

  The anger was burning a hole in the pit of his stomach, so he decided to drive out to the nearest stretch of sea to calm his nerves and get some perspective. Everything Ferrera had said made sense. It was just that he couldn’t help taking it as a personal insult. He hated the fact that he was forever tied up with the misdeeds of his father, as if they were one and the same. Why did he seem so tainted to everyone? He’d worked hard to clear the slate and to establish a separate identity for himself, but it still always came back to the same thing. Sometimes he wondered if he hadn’t actually made an expensive mistake — whether it would have been an easier life on the other side. And who was he kidding anyway? Maybe they were right. Once tainted, always tainted? Evil was in the genes, after all. Shouldn’t he have accepted his paternal heritage, gone into the family business, and opted for a simpler life — a life that at the end of the day would have been more honest than the one he was trying to live now, labouring so hard all the time to carve out this fresh identity for himself, an identity that maybe, when all was said and done, wasn’t really his to own? He needed a talk with Dr Salvai — well, more than a talk — but right now she was hundreds of kilometres away.

  He pulled the battered fag packet from his pocket and lit up shakily; thankfully, there was very little breeze on this stretch of beach, and he was able to take a long drag, drawing the nicotine down deep into his lungs. He exhaled slowly, counted to ten, and took in the scene: through the haze of smoke he watched a trio of gulls dive-bombing a patch of foam a couple of metres away, expertly focussed on the task in hand. To the right, a young family was setting up for the morning, the father fixing the umbrella, the mother tending to their two little girls. Maybe it was time for him to change his life. Maybe finally settling down would help quell all these questions. For the second time, he felt like calling Aurelia; for the second time, he pushed the impulse away.

  He took a few more drags until the cigarette was spent, and then he got up, still holding the butt — not wanting to leave it in the sand. He dusted himself down and headed back to the car, thinking through the tasks for the day. He wanted Ratsel cleared up one way or the other. If he wasn’t their man, they needed to know about it quickly.

  45

  ‘I HAVE AN UNDERSTANDING of Italian law, and I know that if you don’t find something concrete soon you will have no choice but to release my client.’

  Scamarcio pushed his chair back against the wall and took another drag on the fag, surveying the pair of them. Ratsel looked even more battered than when they’d first found him at the hotel. He’d had to share a cell with a man called Quattrocchi, who, according to Borghetti, was the worst of the town drunks and had a passion for the songs of Adriano Celentano, which he would recite word — if not tone — perfectly during his frequent brushes with the bottle. It looked like Ratsel had had to bear the worst of it. According to the desk sergeant, Quattrocchi had not burnt himself out until around 5.00am — late for him. Maybe having an audience had given him newfound confidence.

  Ratsel’s lawyer appeared to be in his mid-30s, with close-cropped blond hair, constantly blinking brown eyes, and wire-framed glasses. There was nothing to suggest that he had had to be up in the early hours to reach the island by lunchtime. His was a hard-vowelled, brusque efficiency.

  ‘So then, Detective, I’m asking you: what do you have?’

  Right now, if truth be told, Scamarcio had absolutely zero. Barrabino had failed to turn up anything other than the blood, and they were still waiting on the results from Florence. Scamarcio had asked them to do a comparison with Dacian’s DNA, but his confidence was low that they’d be able to get it to him in time. So Scamarcio decided to ignore the question. ‘Last night I asked your client what he was doing here on the island, and he was not forthcoming. I think it’s in his best interests if he co-operates with us.’

  The lawyer gave Ratsel a curt nod. They had obviously planned what he was and was not going to say beforehand.

  Ratsel shifted in his seat, uwilling to make eye contact with Scamarcio. ‘Like I told you, the usual tourist stuff.’

  ‘Could you elaborate?’

  Ratsel rolled his eyes, and sank back in his chair with his legs apart. ‘I just wanted a short break in the sun. I couldn’t get the time off for a full week, so just decided to take a long weekend.’

  ‘So you were planning to stay until Sunday?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Why come alone? Wouldn’t it be more fun with …’ Scamarcio was about to say ‘a girlfriend’, but wasn’t sure in which direction Ratsel’s tastes ran, or if he was even interested in adult relationships, ‘… a partner?’

  ‘Prison is not conducive to long-term relationships, Detective. And now I’m on the outside, it’s not been that easy to meet people.’

  Scamarcio nodded, resolving to move on. It was never useful to damage a man’s pride at this stage. ‘So you decided to take a short break. What was the plan? To hit the beaches, see the sights?’

  ‘Yeah, basically. But mainly the beach — I just wanted to go home with a tan. Good way to start the summer.’

  ‘You working back in Germany?’

  Ratsel shuffled in his seat again. ‘I’ve had a few short-term contracts. Obviously, I couldn’t go back to medicine.’

  ‘So what are you doing now?’

  ‘I’ve been employed by a pharmaceutical company as a consultant.’

  ‘They know about your past?’

  ‘I wasn’t required to declare it.’

  ‘They don’t ask you if you have a criminal record there?’

  The lawyer placed a hand on Ratsel’s arm, and turned to Scamarcio. ‘Detective, how is this relevant?’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Scamarcio. ‘So you just spent the last couple of days at the beach?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The one right by the hotel. I didn’t feel like going far.’

  ‘Can anyone account for your presence there?’

  Ratsel pushed up his lip in a childlike way, shaking his head sligh
tly. ‘Well, I don’t know. I suppose it depends on whether they remember me. I’m not sure my face is that remarkable.’

  ‘Well, we’ll try anyway. Did you leave the beach at any time?’

  ‘Only to go back to my hotel room to use the bathroom.’

  ‘You ever go to the beach at Fetovaia?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Sure?’

  Ratsel scowled. ‘Quite sure. Why?’

  ‘No matter.’

  Ratsel’s lawyer placed his hand on his client’s arm again. ‘Where are you going with this, Detective? We’ve both seen the papers. You can’t pin that on him — he wasn’t even on the island.’

  Before Scamarcio could respond, there was a knock on the door. Zanini was clutching a sheaf of documents. ‘Sorry to interrupt, Sir, but I thought you’d want to see these.’ He walked around the desk and handed them to Scamarcio without looking at Ratsel or his lawyer. ‘I’ll be outside if you need anything.’

  To his great surprise, Scamarcio saw that they were the blood results from Florence. The fact they were in already was some kind of miracle. Maybe somebody high up had pushed the green button to look good in front of the Americans. He skimmed through the first paragraphs to the conclusion on the front page: the blood in Ratsel’s apartment was that of the boy Dacian. He flipped through the pages to see the confirmation for himself in the columns of figures and symbols comparing the two analyses — the one from the body, and the other from the sample in Ratsel’s room. His head was light with excitement. Finally, a breakthrough. His hunch about the boy had been right.

  He leaned back in his chair, savouring the moment. ‘You’d better be praying that old Quattrocchi doesn’t get too much liquor in him tonight.’

  Ratsel looked confused.

  ‘Quattrocchi, your cellmate from last night,’ Scamarcio spoke slowly, as if Ratsel was an imbecile. ‘You’re in for another evening’s entertainment — quite a few evenings, probably — and, believe me, that will seem a paradise compared to where you’ll be heading afterwards.’